Describe an object that is dear to you.

Cupcake the malamute had turned eight years old in August. Her eyes, bits of Pearl in balls of black clay, had long showed the absence of any youth; soon she would be classified as nothing more than a piece of junk to be sold at a garage sale. Black dots of paint coated her muzzle, next to the flat nose which had to be replaced after her careless owner dashed her to the ground in frustration. Her paws, a diameter about half an inch, had grown so gray from dust and dirt her shiny white coat had grown unrecognizable. Her back crumpled under pressure from being at the bottom of an IKEA toy box for several years, mottled with more unknown stains. Her gray fur on her back had been left uncombed and her ears in an awkward position; her right ear right from the clean shop shelf was noticeably larger than her left. If you'd seen her ten years a smooth ruby collar in which a copper bell was tied would be wound around her neck. The owner, sickened by her stuffed dog's invisible gloating, cut it off with kitchen scissors and wove a Christmas ornament out of it. But Cupcake, wagging a plush stubby tail, never seemed to lose her smile; sewn with black yarn and fringing at the left edge, when her body was turned clockwise there would be a clear formation of a ninety degree angle in her grin.